by Lauren Smith
“Jane, please.” He didn’t know what he was asking, but he couldn’t bear the thought of her leaving.
She shook her head violently. “You’re not supposed to be like this.”
“Like what?” Her attempts to pull away from him were baffling.
“Perfect.” The single word was barely a whisper from her lips before she spun on her heel and dashed out of the room, leaving him alone on the dance floor.
Something in his chest cracked and splintered. He could almost feel pieces of himself falling apart inside.
The song kept playing, the words a haunting warning.
Love is blind.
He swallowed hard as Jane vanished out of ballroom door.
A fluttering movement in the corner of his eyes made him turn, and his heart jolted. A shadow hung at the edge of the floor, twisting and coiling like a serpent. The darkness stretched up the stone wall, like a thorny vine until it seeped out of the stones and morphed into a figure. Bastian watched in mute fascination as the smoky shape transformed into a handsome man with graying skin and haunted eyes, heavily shadowed with bruises, which locked on Bastian. It looked like the man in the portrait in Jane’s room. It looked like…Richard.
“What in God’s name?” He stepped toward the man, to do what, he didn’t know, but the man shrunk back into a shadow and shot across the floor and through the door, the way Jane had gone. Was he going after her? To hurt her?
“Jane!” he shouted, fear clenching his throat as he broke into a run.
…
Tears spilled down her cheeks, drying in salty tracks. Jane scrubbed at them with her sleeve, her throat constricting as she tried not to cry.
Damn the man! She was completely embarrassed by her reaction to him and how she had just run away like a coward.
It felt too good to be true, to be in his arms, music enveloping her soul, binding her to the handsome Earl of Weymouth. She couldn’t be falling in love with him. She had promised herself she wouldn’t let this infatuation become anything deeper. After Tim, she hadn’t wanted another man to have that power over her, the power to destroy her heart. What a fool she was. She should have known her heart would be the one thing she wouldn’t be able to control.
She passed by the red drawing room and froze. A creeping chill slithered up her body from her toes to her head. Like how she’d felt in the library before she’d lost control and walked to the tower to throw herself over.
“Oh God,” she murmured through barely parted lips. “Not again.”
The drawing room door was barely opened, leaving a sliver of inky darkness. Anything and anybody could have been beyond the door. The thought made her insides squirm and twist sharply. Tiny hairs on her neck and arms rose in warning. The soft sounds of the castle faded to a heavy, blanket-thick silence until a ringing started in her ears.
The blackness of the drawing room seemed to move and stretch, bending rebelliously against the light of the hallway. The lights in the wall sconces flickered, dimmed once, and, in a rush of popping noises, went out.
She sucked in a harsh breath as darkness surrounded her. She couldn’t see… Her eyes screamed with the need to focus on something, anything. Why couldn’t she move? Her feet were rooted to the floor.
Shhh…shh… The slide of something rasping over of the carpet raked over her sensitive ears.
Shhh…shh…
It sounded like dragging footsteps… Something was coming toward her. Sheer terror spiked through her, and just like that, she was able to move again.
She spun, crashing into the solid stone of a wall. Her whimper was cut short as a high, keening wail drowned her out, like a banshee crying out its warning of a fast-approaching death.
If only I could see… God, just let me see it! She would rather see the creature that approached, look into the face of the thing that was haunting her steps. Not knowing, not seeing, was killing her.
She had the urge to scream Bastian’s name, to call for help. But that would just give away her location to the thing that hunted her. His name was on her lips when the choking blackness was cut through by a burst of blue light from inside the drawing room. Desperate to escape the darkened hallway, she rushed into the drawing room.
The setting sun had sunk beneath the sky, and only the moon’s wan glow illuminated everything. A pearly light blossomed in the center of the room, floating like a small orb. Tendrils of light spun outward from it in soft, lazy patterns.
The sight mesmerized her, pulling her toward it, leaving her unable to stop. The orb of light moved up to illuminate the portrait of Isabelle. Jane looked from the bottom of the painting upward, studying the silk gown up to the face of the captivating woman who’d died so long ago. Her ancestor. Blood of her blood. Flesh of her flesh.
Twin tracks of blood oozed from Isabelle’s eyes, dripping down the oil portrait.
A silent scream knotted in Jane’s throat, but that didn’t stop her hand from rising up to touch the line of blood. Her fingers came away covered in the ruby substance. The ball of light above her started to spin, moving faster and faster, before it grew bright and shot straight at her. It hit her chest, and her vision tunneled.
Something was inside her! It curled deep into her muscles, and her bones, taking hold of her, ramming against the protective barriers she had in her mind.
This isn’t real, this isn’t happening.
But it was.
Possession.
“Jane?” Bastian’s voice echoed just outside, and she opened her mouth to shout, to warn him, but nothing came out. She stumbled forward a step, running into the back of a chair. Pain shot up her stomach and into her chest from the collision. Something dark and angry inside her clawed for control, fighting to take over.
“Jane?” He stepped into the doorway, eyes locking on her, his face lined with worry. “Jane what’s wrong?” He started toward her when a second ball of ghostly light winked into existence behind him.
He spun to face it just as the orb sank into his chest. He went rigid, his entire body jolting before he fell to the floor. Jane tried to reach him, but she tripped and the carpet rose to meet her.
She blinked several times, each more slowly than the last, her final sight was the blood running down the gown of Isabelle’s portrait, before darkness closed in.
Richard lounged in a chair by the fire, a glass of brandy in one hand. His coat was gone, his shirt open at the collar, and he was so deep into his cups he didn’t care. Nothing mattered anymore.
Isabelle was gone.
Even the happy grin of his infant son, Edward, could not ease the ache in his chest. It was as though someone had ripped his beating heart out and cast it over the cliffs with Isabelle.
He dragged a shaking hand through his hair, mussing it up further, and took another slow drink of the only thing that seemed to numb his pain.
“My lord, you have a visitor.” His butler interrupted his solitude.
“Who is it?” Richard growled. It was dark. He should have no visitors at this hour.
“Miss Cordelia Huntington.”
“Bloody hell,” Richard growled.
The last woman on earth he wished to see. Before he’d met Isabelle, Cordelia would have been the sort of woman he would have considered marrying.
Pain lanced through him at the simple thought of his wife, carving her name into his heart all over again.
What did Miss Huntington want at this time of night? He ought to send her away from Stormclyffe, but he was foxed, and his mood was black enough he that he longed to get into a row even with a lady.
“Show her in.”
“My lord?” His butler’s tone was heavy with disapproval, but he didn’t care.
“Show her in!”
The butler scowled but exited with a nod and a muttered “Very well.”
A few minutes later a woman in a red cloak entered. Her hood concealed her features as she walked around the side of his chair to face him. She dropped her hood, revealing honey-
blond hair and a beautiful face with the coldest hazel eyes he’d ever seen. Richard shuddered as her gaze fixed on him. He didn’t bother to stand as he ought to in a lady’s presence. He just didn’t give a damn.
“What brings you here, Miss Huntingdon?” he growled at her, hoping to drive her away with crudeness. He wanted to mourn Isabelle in peace.
“You do, my lord. I thought it was time to point out that you are in need of a wife. I offer myself to you. My father is quite wealthy and—”
“Silence.” The word came out sharp as a whip crack. He couldn’t believe this woman. She thought to marry him? When his heart was destroyed and his soul ripped to pieces?
“The only woman I loved is gone, and you think I care for riches?”
Her plump red lips thinned into an angry line. “It is time you settled down with a woman worthy of your title. My great-grandfather on my mother’s side was an earl. I am much better suited to the role of countess than some innkeeper’s daughter.”
He jumped to his feet and threw his glass of brandy in the fireplace. The explosion of glass and the rush of flames consuming the alcohol forced Cordelia back a step.
“You insult her; you insult me. Know this, Miss Huntington. I will never marry again.”
She curled her lip in an unladylike sneer. “You will marry. It is your duty to carry on your line. And I will provide you with an heir.”
He laughed harshly. “I have my son, Edward.”
“A child with a dirty, common bloodline?”
He wrapped a hand around her throat the second she uttered the words. “Never insult my son again.” He released her and shoved her away from him so he could pace over to the window and gaze out upon the night.
The soft clink of glasses and the trickle of liquid was soon followed by her coming to his side.
“My apologies, my lord. I’ve spoken rashly and out of turn. Here…drink this. It will calm your nerves.” She placed a brandy glass in his hand.
With a vicious glare at her, he downed the liquid and set the glass on the windowsill. He licked his lips. The brandy tasted a little bitter.
“It’s a pity you couldn’t be made to come around.” She stroked his cheek.
Her touch burned like cold fire against his skin. He slapped her hand away, and the room spun slightly, blurring at the edges of his vision.
“You should leave, Miss Huntington. The hour is late, and you will be missed.” The last few words of his speech slurred as his tongue grew heavy and thick.
She laughed quietly, yet the sound seemed more sharp and piercing to his ears, as though they strained to pick up every sound around him.
“I will leave… As soon as I’ve watched the last breath leave your body, and then I will go upstairs and take your precious babe and throw him off the cliffs like I did the common whore who birthed him.” The venom in her tone was pure acid to his ears.
He spun to face her, using the windowsill to support himself as his legs quaked beneath him.
“What? You mean…she didn’t kill herself?” Through the murky waters of his mind, this revelation was strangely a comfort. Months of guilt had driven him to the bottle, had him ignoring his son. And now he’d learned Isabelle hadn’t committed suicide?
“I cast a spell upon her.” She explained the murder with all the casual disinterest of someone discussing the weather. “I’m a witch, you see. My mother taught me well. The hearts of a dozen innocent doves taken by force beneath a full moon gave me the power to enslave your darling wife’s free will. I forced her to flee into the storm and come to the cliffs. And when she arrived, I shoved her over the edge.” Her pupils appeared almost catlike, and Richard shook his head, trying to make sense of what she was saying.
“Why? Why kill her?” he demanded hoarsely.
Shock numbed Richard. His throat started to close.
“It’s not just her I’ve killed… I’ve poisoned your brandy. Feeling short of breath yet?” As she spoke, she slid one hand into the folds of her cloak and retrieved a vial filled with red liquid. She uncapped the stopper and smeared the liquid along her palm.
He doubled over, coughing as he struggled to breathe.
“I was the proper choice as your wife. But you picked that woman. That innkeeper’s daughter!” She lunged for him, smearing the liquid…blood…on his chest.
“It was my choice. I loved her,” he choked out, shoving her hands away from him.
“You shamed me by picking her. And now I shall have my revenge on you all.”
Her eyes glowed, orange flames destroying any glimmer of humanity that might have remained there.
“I’ll take great pleasure in tossing that brat into the sea for the fish to devour. Tenebrosum cor tuum anima vestra, et tenebrarum. Tu mihi in sempiternum. Masculi Omnia mihi.” She smiled at him, the expression full of pure malice. “Everyone in your family will suffer. This will never be the end, not until I own the soul of an heir to Stormclyffe.”
Something deep within Richard refused to die, even as the poison spread through him, killing him.
This bitch would not kill his son!
He shoved away from the window and tackled her. His hands wrapped around her throat. Even as his strength began to fail and his vision blurred, he kept hold of her, squeezing. He heard the faint cry of his little boy one floor above. The sound infused him with one last burst of determination and power.
“You will never harm another soul, never take another life!” He squeezed again, and the flames in her eyes were extinguished. His heart gave out, and he slumped forward.
Chapter Fourteen
Bastian jerked awake, gasping for breath. His mind reeled with what he’d just seen. Had it been real? A witch named Cordelia Huntington had murdered Isabelle and Richard? Could he believe what he’d seen? Or had it been merely fevered imaginings?
Head pounding, he glanced around the drawing room. Jane was sprawled facedown a few feet away.
She stirred and groaned. “Bastian, I had the strangest dream…” She looked around, confused. “Why are we on the floor?”
“Jane, did you see…?” He struggled to find the words.
“Richard and Cordelia? Yes, front-row seat and everything.” She sat up and shoved her hair back from her face, her lips drawn tight in a grim line. After a moment, her lips softened, parted, and she drew a slow breath before continuing. “Honestly, I’m so scared I want to run for the nearest door, but…”
“But?” he echoed. Odd how he hoped this one little word meant she wouldn’t leave him.
“Well, I can’t leave you here alone. You are a disaster waiting to happen, Bastian. I bet you’d walk into a dark cellar without a second thought as to what’s down there.”
His lips twitched. “Like bottles of wine? That’s all that’s in my cellars.”
She raised a single brow. “That you know of. This is exactly why I have to stay. You don’t have the good sense to leave. Someone has to watch over you. It would really piss me off if some ghosts got the better of you because you won’t admit they exist.”
Bastian got to his feet and helped Jane up, holding her close. “I know you don’t trust me, but I believe you. This is real. You were right.”
She studied him, seeming to search for any sign or hint of deception. “Really? You don’t think I’m crazy then?”
He shook his head. “No. Enough has happened to prove you were right. We’re facing something supernatural, and I’m not arguing with you anymore.”
Her shoulders sagged and she sighed with relief. “Thank God, because trying to protect someone who doesn’t believe in ghosts is usually how people die in bad horror movies.”
He chuckled. “Jane, this is real life, not a movie.”
She raised one challenging brow. “Exactly. All the more reason to be careful and keep you out of trouble.”
“Are you braving potentially malignant spirits because you care about me?”
He had to admit he rather liked the idea of this little American
firecracker of a woman coming to his defense. Even though he could protect himself, especially from incorporeal creatures, he enjoyed seeing her flushed with excitement, eyes bright with her determination to save him. If only he could get her to take that same passion to a bed, preferably his.
“Don’t look so smug. I’m here because it’s my duty to find out the truth. My dissertation needs to be flawless, all my research a hundred percent accurate before I present it.”
Her rigid back and crossed arms showed a defiance he hadn’t expected, and it aroused him. He couldn’t help but wonder if he could get her to submit to him, if she’d agree to being tied…
“Hey! Eyes on my face.” She waved a hand in front of his eyes, getting him to look up from her lovely breasts. “Clearly my hunch was right. Isabelle was murdered, and now we know that Richard was as well by a woman named Cordelia Huntington. No wonder this place is haunted. I’d be angry if everyone thought my wife killed herself and then I got murdered by the same maniac who killed my wife. I bet Richard is roaming the halls at night just like Isabelle does the cliffs.”
Bastian’s hands around her waist tightened. “What makes you think Isabelle haunts the cliffs?” Another secret she had been keeping from him?
She licked her lips nervously. “I—I saw her when I first arrived. You haven’t seen her?”
“No. I’ve never seen anything in this house before today. There were rumors of course, other people seeing her, but I haven’t witnessed her or anything else before you arrived. What did she look like?”
“She was dressed in a white gown. She flowed over the earth and straight to the cliffs.” She paused, her gaze distant, voice soft as though recalling a sad memory. “She turned back to look at me. Her eyes…so full of sadness. I wanted to help her, Bastian. I have to help her.”
He caught an errant lock of her hair, coiling it around his finger. “So I’m never to be rid of you?” He phrased it as though she was a nuisance but his kept his tone soft, hoping she’d sense he meant the opposite.
He tugged on the gleaming coil, reveling in its silkiness. She was just so touchable. Everything about Jane from her pale pink lips to her silky hair and full curves demanded he touch her.